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#lucifer s5 part 2
uncouth-the-fifth · 8 months
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click, p.2 - Sam Winchester/Reader
read it on ao3.
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Pairing: Sam Winchester/Reader (late s5) Tags/Warnings: angst, love confessions, romantic sex, oral sex/cunnilingus, (aka, Sam pussy addiction: the shequel), Sam is Lucifer's vessel, reader is AFAB. Word Count: ~11k. Notes: i was commissioned for the second time by the lovely @daffodil-mania, who wanted a continuation of her last fic set during the "say yes" era of s5. (sooooo dangerous to let me put my grubby hands on this version of Sam, btw). i cannot express how BUCK FUCKING WILD uncouth-nation went for the first part of this fic, so this is for all the wonderful people who gushed over click, commented, threw me some kudos, or even just read it and liked it. lots of love, and i hope you enjoy <3 i did my best to rip out your soul as best i could. THIS CAN STAND ON IT'S OWNNN AHHH. i mean. if u wanna read it <3 Ask to be added to my taglists for future posts!
FIVE YEARS LATER
The walk from the bus stop to your apartment is a safe and easy seven minutes. If you were any other person in any other world, you’d glide onto the bus after your night shift at the university, hop off at your stop, and bumble toward your apartment without a single care in the world. Maybe stare at your phone the whole walk back. Text a hot guy who isn’t the physical manifestation of the devil on earth. Normal stuff.
But this is your life, so you sit front seat on the bus, hands in your lap, tapping a nervous beat against the angel blade hidden in your book bag. The windows rattle in their frames and gleam with rain. You could get off at your stop and take those easy seven minutes home—but the bus driver could also be a demon, so.
Since you aren’t in the mood to die a slow death tonight, walking a few extra blocks to keep anybody from knowing where you live will have to work.
On day two of this, you’d called Dean and asked if you were being extra paranoid. He’d kindly pointed out: Extra-paranoid is just extra-survival. I dunno about you, but survivin’ a lil’ extra sounds fan-fuckin-tastic to me right about now.
He’s right. You know he’s right. But it still doesn’t feel like a good answer, and that makes you picture Sam, twenty-three and still bright-eyed, running his fingers down your bare back and scowling. I’m sick of surviving. One of these days, I want to actually live my life.
But that had been before the apocalypse, before Dean’s deal, before everything. Sam was a different man now. Hunting had reached into all three of you and ripped all sorts of things out, but you would never forgive it for taking Sam’s hope for something better. God, you missed that Sam. You missed him more than anything.
The city bus lumbers up to the curb and spits you out onto the sidewalk, where you superstitiously hover, waiting for the other passengers crawling away from their night shifts to scatter. It’s only when the bus is a dark spot in the mist down the street that you start to walk, your whole body caked head to toe with oily rain. 
This time, you take a random left toward your apartment and serpentine street-to-street, never walking the exact same way the same week. By the time you’re closer to where the bus could’ve actually dropped you off, the lingering smell of old research books has been practically power-washed out of your clothes. You try to think of anything but the freezing, biting, face-stinging rain… and, like a moth to a flame, your mind floats back to Sam.
It’s been over two weeks since he dropped the nuclear option. Over two weeks ago, Sam wanted to say yes to Lucifer, and over two weeks have passed since the massive, unstoppable-force-meets-immovable-object fight that’d erupted as a result.
Dean had blown up. Sam had pushed. You’d burst into tears and clawed into Sam just as deep, because why, why would he ever go there—why would that even be a fathomable possibility in his mind? Did he really think so low of himself? How could he ever give up like that? How could he leave you—?
The worst part was easily the way Sam had reacted. With Dean or John, he could yell himself hoarse, but when it came to fighting you all he could do was sit and take it. He put his head down and nodded at everything you said, even the cruel things. In some ways it made you angrier, but also inconceivably, cosmically guilty. This was Sam’s choice. And of course, because this was Sam, his choice was to save the whole goddamn world. Not a single bone in your body carried that level of selflessness, yet Sam bled the stuff.
You were still furious with him, but only because being mad at him was the only option you had left. The right thing to do would be to tell Sam, I trust you to make this decision, this is your life, and let him take that jump… But you didn’t have it in you. Saying that felt like pushing him over the ledge yourself, or telling him you’d never cared about him in the first place. If you were angry at least you were still fighting for him in some way.
You’d been on board for everything—trying to find a way out of Dean’s deal, trying to kill Lilith, everything. But the argument with Sam had torn out the final piece of you that could stand this, so you packed a bag, told Dean you’d be in a strict research-only role, and booked it back to your hometown. It was cowardly and stupid and beyond selfish, but you knew your stance. The hunt had taken everything from you. You refused to let it take Sam, too.
Maybe, Sam would take you stepping away as a serious sign to change his mind. You couldn’t imagine a world where Sam and his Winchester stubbornness would ever do that, but. It was a nice wish to hold onto.
By the time you make it up the steps to your apartment building, you’re soaked to the bone and audibly making pathetic shivering sounds. Your bookbag feels heavier than ever, digging a trench into your shoulder as you fish around for your keys. The second your apartment door is open the true weight of your exhaustion hits you—
—and then utterly disappears, replaced by a shock of pure adrenaline.
There’s a new pair of boots by your front door.
You catch the heavy door before it goes swinging against the doorjamb, straining your ears against the ringing silence. The bedside lamp is on in your room.
On dead-quiet feet, you slip in, click the door shut behind you, and slip off your bookbag. Your angel blade is in your hand in a second, but you risk a few extra steps toward your kitchen table to wiggle loose the pistol you taped underneath. Just the weight of your weapons in your hands flicks the hunter muscle memory back on in your body, and before you can think you’re hiding in the shadow beside your bedroom door. Listening.
Soft breathing. The pages of a book turning.
You know, instinctively, who it is—you would know him dumb and blind and dead. But these days, anybody could be piloting his body around.
You suck in a deep breath through your nose, heart throbbing in your ears. You wait until the fingers on your gun aren’t shaking anymore, then burst inside the room, slamming the door into the wall and whipping your pistol up to eye level.
Sam’s head flinches towards you. He is exactly as you saw him two weeks ago; solemn, determined, and open, the air around him practically steaming with safety and goodness. He’s sat comfortably on your bed, reading a book he brought with him. Despite everything, your belly still curls with butterflies when you lay eyes on him. Sam. Definitely Sam, and no one else.
Still, your paranoia has gotten you this far. You both stare at each other for a beat, equal parts scared out of your minds and relieved. Without a word, you keep your gun trained on him, and Sam lets you, his eyes big and understanding. You shuffle sideways to your dresser, and without turning away from him, pop open the top drawer and toss him the silver flask of holy water you keep hidden inside. 
He catches it. So, not a shapeshifter, then. Sam takes a drink of the holy water, even turning to the side so you can see the water go into his mouth. (A demon in Missouri had slipped past the three of you by pretending to sip—only Sam would know that.) You’re still a little terrified, but you manage to pull your weapons back down to your sides. You still don’t know what to say.
He’s really here. The part of you that had worried the argument with Sam would be your last wails with joy. He’s here, alive and in front of you. No matter how awkward you feel you can’t bring yourself to stop staring at him. By the buttery light of your bedside lamp, he literally glows with beauty, and you realize he’d scrubbed his boots off on your welcome mat to not track mud in, and he’d hung up his rain-soaked jacket in your shower to dry. Stupid polite Sam things.
You dare to glance back at your kitchen, then swivel to squint at him. “Did you… do my dishes?”
Sam lets his hands relax into his lap and nods, shy. He’s looking at you in a way he never really has before, eyes big and soul-rending. “…Yeah. I used the key you gave me to get in… Hope that’s okay.”
There’s another long pause. Usually when you stare at Sam, he doesn’t stare so intensely back, but you share a weird mutual moment where you just stand there and take each other in. It’s so obvious it’s painful, but if he’s doing it then you feel entitled to devour him with your eyes too.
“I got, uh, bored. Waiting for you,” Sam clarifies. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”
Sam stands from the bed. For a second you think he’s heading straight for you, but he moves toward the dresser behind you, kindly tucking the holy water back where it was stowed. You flit out of his way as fast as you can and set your weapons down on the closest available surface, feeling off-kilter. Why would he come here? Is he going to tell you that he changed his mind?
You hold onto the question, but you know it’s too out of character to hope for. Despair sinks into your gut like a rock in a pond. You know why Sam’s here. He would never make this decision without telling you first—without at least saying goodbye in person.
Your throat locks up with tears.
Behind you, Sam hums, “You changed your hair.”
Right. You’d altered it to be more undercover. You resist the urge to reach up and play with your hair, or give in to any of the fluttery feelings you always feel around Sam. “It’s safer.” Tightly, you ask him, “What are you doing here?”
Sam drags a long breath through his nose. You clutch the end of your bookshelf, your chest crumpling with misery. Please don’t say it. Please, please, lie to me if you have to.
“...I’m not taking the jump,” Sam breathes.
There’s more that he says after that. He talks about how you and Dean are right, and how, surely, after everything that the three of you have been through, there’s got to be another way to end this. You’ve always found another way in the past. Sam explains all this to you in a sure, quiet voice, like this is something he’s thought about for a long time, but you barely hear him after those first words. There’s this persistent tension in your chest that’s telling you that there’s something wrong here, but you don’t care—you don’t give a single fucking shit, because Sam—Sam isn’t saying yes. Sam’s staying.
“…are other ways I can make up for the mistakes I made,” he’s telling you, scrambling to fill the nagging silence.
You take a moment to force back your tears, and Sam, nervously, keeps talking.
He swallows, trying to smile. “I-I would’ve called and told you, but something tells me you wouldn’t have picked up.”
When you’ve got your bearings back, you push away from your bookshelf and turn to face him. Your legs are so leaden that you feel as if you have to physically pick up your body and drop it down the other direction, but you manage it. “What… what made you change your mind?”
Sam gets one look at your face and wilts with guilt. He doesn’t answer your question in words—just shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at his feet, then around your room, as if his reason was in the air with the two of you. In the apartment. His eyes flicker over you just once, and you understand. Seeing you leave really had scared him.
“Be careful,” you start to joke with him, “you start validating my childish reactions and we’re gonna have a whole new set of problems on our hands.”
Sam scoffs. “It wasn’t childish to run away.”
You raise an eyebrow at his word choice, which gets an honest-to-god laugh out of him. A real good Sam Winchester laugh, dimples and all. The last dregs of anxiety in your gut melt at the sound, and Sam reassures you, shrugging, “You needed to get out. In case you forgot, I kind of invented wanting to get out. I understand. I really do.”
You know that he does. That’s not exactly going to stop you from feeling guilty about ditching them, but at least it kicked some sense into him. God. For the last five or six years, your every moment had been spent with Sam and his brother. Even just a couple weeks without him had drained you, and having him back only makes those feelings more clear. Sam’s presence commands the space in a way that turns your shitty, undecorated bedroom into someplace magical, someplace good and safe and warm, and just seeing him standing there draws the ache out of your spine.
Your reach out for his sleeve. Somehow, he’s more real than ever, a tangible person instead of the memory you’ve chased for so long.
“You’re really not saying yes?”
Sam unwinds your hand from the fabric so he can hold it instead, your fingers scooped in his fingers. You’re given a firm squeeze and are hypnotized by him in an instant, the world narrowing down to this moment between just him and just you.
Sam looks into your eyes when he promises, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The tears you’d resisted before return in one big, merciless wave. You’re so tired and the rain was so fucking cold and you’re so sick of being scared that Sam, thank god, Sam, is everything you could possibly need. He’s not going anywhere. Before you can stop yourself you’re clutching him for dear life, shoving your face in his shirt and crushing his body against yours. These last few weeks have submerged you in survival mode, and you don’t realize how deep until Sam pulls you out of the current. He’s warm and dry, and when you inhale to sob he smells like a 24-hour-laundromat, the Impala, and home home home. You could’ve lost that. You could’ve lost him.
“Th-thank you,” you choke out at nothing in particular, “thank you.”
You’ve cried a lot this week, so there are not many tears left to shed. Still, Sam holds you through all of them, swaying back and forth with you and cooing in your ear. You hear him sniffling too. When you’re both all sobbed out, you pull back to tell him you love him, to remind him of all the things he needs to hear, but Sam strangely doesn’t let you. The second he feels you pull away he clutches you back against him, and you get the uneasy impression that you’ve been comforting him more than he’s been comforting you. His whole body’s shaking.
Sam hugs you for longer than he ever has before. It’s a little worrying, but you’ve both needed it so much that you don’t even complain.
After a while, Sam slips back, and in traditional Winchester fashion tries to play off his vulnerability. He’s always been a dead-silent crier, so you have zero way to gauge how bad things are until you see his face. He looks like he’d sobbed his heart out. Your shirt is still wet from the rain, but even then you can feel Sam’s tears soaking your shoulder. Saying anything about it will just embarrass him, though.
“...I-I, uh,” you lick the tears off your lips, mumbling, “I don’t know bout’ you, but I’m beat. Do you have somewhere you gotta be, or,” you add hopefully, “or can you stick around?”
This is the part where Sam will start coaxing you to drive back with him to where he and Dean are holed up, you’re sure of it. You’re already plotting in your head what to pack and what to take, but Sam never brings it up. He doesn’t worry about tomorrow yet.
He presses his lips together. “I was hoping I could stay here tonight, actually.”
This is an even better answer. You’re nodding before he’s even finished the thought, stroking your hand down his chest. It twists your gut in knots to see him like this, so you start to steer the conversation toward something more playful, something less daunting to think about.
“You’re lucky I like you then,” you smirk. Somehow, you manage to peel yourself out of his bubble and teeter toward your dresser, scrubbing the tears off your face. “Make yourself comfortable. I dunno about you, but I’m getting the fuck out of these work clothes, I’m freezing. Do you need anything to sleep in? I’ve got at least five years of your stolen shirts in here.”
You hear him ease himself down on the end of your bed again, but there’s no sassy retort, sly comment, or any sort of line about you and your stealing habits. Instead, sweet and simple, he says, “I’ll just sleep in this. You can have them.”
Okay. Weird.
Since he didn’t take the bait, you throw out another line and try again. This time, you kick off your shoes, open a drawer, and turn back to him with two of his shirts in hand. “Really?” You wave them teasingly in the air. “You sure?”
They are some of his best shirts, easy. You’re not a cheap thief. The first is a holey, feather-soft Red Hot Chili Peppers tee, and the second is a deep maroon Stanford sweater. He has so few artifacts from that time in his life that there’s no way he won’t want this one back. Right?
But Sam just gazes at you, his whole face soft and loving as he says, “You should wear the Stanford one. It looks good on you.”
Those old hot-shivery feelings for him seep down your spine, and you feel in real-time how your cheeks flood with heat. Damn, okay. Consider yourself wooed.
You’ve been down this road with Sam many, many times—enough to know when he’s flirting with you. The forbidden labels had never been thrown around, but. Well. Sam had been your first time, as well as the many other times after that.
He’s usually leagues more subtle than his brother, but for whatever reason he’s pouring it on by the truckload tonight. When you turn around he’s nothing but big, happy puppy eyes, waiting patiently for you at the end of the bed. (Like you’re his girlfriend. Like anything about this is normal at all, and you and Sam are going to tuck into bed together like it’s any other night). Fuck, you missed him.
The bathroom is only a few steps away, but this is Sam, so you decide to just throw on your pajamas right here. Your shirt is so wet that it hits the floor with a slap. It also takes some experience to wring yourself out of your denim-turned-cement jeans, so it’s not the sexiest show in the entire world. Still, Sam’s gaze traces sensual lines down your back. You would rather go to literal, actual hell than wear your bra for a minute longer, so the second you’re free of its death grip, a long happy sigh drains out of you. A similar dreamy sigh drains out of Sam. Dork.
“I will never get tired of that,” Sam murmurs. You expect to hear some kind of hunger there, but the timber of his voice bleeds with admiration and fondness.
There are very few ways to be a normal human being while Sam Winchester adores your nude body with his eyes. The best you can do is burst into flustered, giggly laughter and give him a good eyeroll, your entire face cooking like a stove burner.
“Alright, loverboy,” you scoff, “I’m gonna go brush my teeth and take my makeup off—”
“Can I help?” Sam asks.
You sputter out another laugh, confused. “You wanna brush my teeth for me?”
“No,” Sam shakes his head, smiling big, “Lemme take your makeup off for you.”
Okay. Weirder. But it’s sweet, and you like this side of him, so you decide to indulge his mood. “...Sure.”
You go about your night-time routine. Sam continues to be a weirdo, trailing you into the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe, and blinking slow endearing blinks at you as he… watches you brush your teeth. Just. Stands there, watching, utterly enamored with this little moment of domesticity with you. On the surface level you’re a little thrown off, but it falls under the category of Freaky Sam Things that made you catch feelings for him in the first place, so. You grin into your toothbrush the whole time.
When he’s satisfied by his little ogling fest, he drifts off to hunt around for your makeup wipes. Either you’re predictable or he knows you too well, because he finds them within seconds, and patiently sits back as you finish up your routine, watching you like you’ll disappear on him the moment he turns away. Click click, you feel inside you.
“Okay,” he says when you’re done. “Close your eyes.”
You do. You wait for the cool touch of the wipe on your face, but instead, Sam’s big, rough fingers find your chin and hold you still. It takes conscience effort to not melt into his touch like a cat in a square of sunlight. Your willpower is nothing on Sam’s, though, so you give in quickly, sinking into his hand and sighing through your nose. In gentle swipes, he cleans your face. It must be a nightmare of smeared mascara considering how you’d cried earlier… And yet Sam had still been so transfixed by you. He’s the fucking best.
Sam’s hand tilts your head from side to side to survey his handiwork. Pleased, he tosses the wipe in the trash and says, “There you go.”
You open your eyes and go to double-check his work in the mirror, but Sam hasn’t removed his hand from your chin, and you really, really don’t want him to. His thick thumb comes up and caresses under your lips. He looks at you like he loves you, and with all the honesty in the world, he utters, “...You are so pretty.”
…The only way for you to survive this is by throwing him a dry look. “You’re full of shit. What’s your game, Winchester?”
That earns you another authentic Sam laugh, along with a handsome boyish smile. “There’s no game. What are you talking about?”
You squint at him. Liar.
“This.” You gestured between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re mooning over me. Why are you mooning? Are you planning something?”
A ripple of discomfort rolls across Sam’s face, but it passes too fast for you to read. His hands go right back in his pockets and he leans into the doorframe again. “I’m just… happy we’re not fighting,” he confesses.
Oh. That makes sense. Sam hasn’t exactly made up with you like that before, but. These times change everyone. You ease up on your teasing and admit, “Me too.”
“I’m sorry for scaring you away,” Sam says, and far, far too seriously for your liking, he whispers, “I’m sorry for everything.”
Your answer slips right out of your mouth without hesitation. “I forgive you, stupid,” your brows furrow together. “And I’m sorry, too. I said some pretty shitty stuff back there.”
Sam wilts against the doorframe a little. “Nothing I didn’t deserve.”
A dull pulse of anger flares in your chest, which flickers out and dies not a second later. There’s so much you want to say to that.
It is so fucking unfair—biblically, cosmically unfair—that Sam, the good guy to end all good guys, thinks of himself this way. He is the kind of righteous they make saints out of. And yet he sits in your silly little bathroom in your shitty little apartment and gives you that look, the look that says, I deserve this and so much more. I deserve to rot in hell for all eternity. He gave you that exact look when he brought up saying yes. He gives it to you now, because Sam sees everything as a sin to serve penance for—freeing Lucifer from the cage and making you a little worried. He thinks he’s so evil, so beyond saving. It makes you want to get your fists in your shirt and just shake him. 
You’re good! You want to scream. Just for once in your life, listen to me! None of this is your fault!
There’s nothing you could say to him that would ever make him let go of his guilt. But, at the very least, you could help him forget about it for a while.
“You beat yourself up too much,” you scold. Then, softer, you add, “C’mere, Sammy.”
Sam does as told, planting himself right in front of you. God, he’s changed. You look him over with a bittersweet smile. He used to be so spindly. The last few years have filled him out, forcing his body into something ready for war. The hunt reached in and tore all sorts of things out of people, but you’d been wrong about what it’d ripped out of Sam. His optimism was still there, warm and humming in the tissue of his body, and just seeing it fills you with hope. He looks so different from the man you’d had all to yourself in that cabin, but you can feel that he’s still in there. He’s still your Sam.
You take his face in your hands, smoothing your thumbs into his dimples and quietly, needily rasping, “...Can I take care of you?”
Sam’s whole body shudders with relief. “Please, yes.”
The next few beats of this dance haven’t changed. Like always, Sam comes flying in with a big, smashing kiss that shatters any leftover barriers between you. You’re not Sam’s girlfriend and he’s not your boyfriend, but Sam makes you his with this kiss. (If only for a little while). Your noses mash together and his eyes squeeze shut and then everything is just Sam, Sam, Sam at every angle. His hands are at his sides then suddenly they’re all over you, taking two greedy handfuls of your waist under the Stanford sweater. He jams your hips against his and kisses you senseless, towering over you, surrounding you, so that when you pull back to gasp for breath your lungs are flooded with his familiar heady love potion.
Either he’s giving off some Poison Ivy-level pheromones, or your body is so familiar with these steps that it knows what comes after this kiss… because you’re instantly wet.
You realized a long time ago that you and Sam have sex a bit too often for it to be considered “casual,” but even if it was, Sam is not a casual kind of lay. After that first soul-stealing kiss, Sam stares you down like a four-course meal, spins you around, pushes you down chest-first onto the bathroom counter, drops to his knees—
—and shoves his face between your legs like it’s his goddamn job.
In the middle of all your surprised shrieking and squirming, Sam nuzzles his face into your panties and moans deep and bassy in his throat, “Yes.”
Like he’s won something. Like he’s been waiting weeks to do this. Holy fuck, you’ll never get tired of that.
The second you have even an atom of your reason back, you slap a hand over your mouth. Neighbors! Sam has already forgotten what neighbors are, and is holy-mission-from-god-determined to make you noisy. He’s extra hungry for it tonight, too. You squeak out his name, not so much in shock, but more because having those huge hands squeezing where your ass starts to round out tends to produce a reaction, and Sam rumbles like a lawnmower in approval. Holy fuck.
He doesn’t have to ask you to spread your legs. One of the hands appreciating your ass slides between your thighs, cupping you through your underwear, and you have to try not to squeal when the meaty pad of Sam’s thumb swipes across your clothed folds. He presses a big kiss in that exact spot as he drags your panties down your legs, and it’s a weirdly sweet gesture that makes your heart and your belly flutter with shivery heat. Fuck. Fuck, you missed him so much.
The first few times Sam had sprung this move on you, you hadn’t exactly had enough time to fully rev up. But Sam is deadly efficient in and out of the bedroom, so he makes a point to get you extra wet (for him) with his spit, laving his hot, slippery tongue over you in one long swipe. He eats you out with all the obscene, noisy enjoyment of somebody gorging on the juiciest fruit they’ve ever tasted. Even you are scandalized.
It becomes embarrassingly clear that covering your mouth isn’t going to keep Sam from what he wants. The high, desperate moan you try to stifle only makes him work harder. You press an arm flat to the counter and bury your face in it for strength, since you’re weak and whimpering for him already. 
Sam was good in bed when you met him. But, by nature, he is a relentless and avid learner, and it’s been five whole years since he put his mouth on you for the first time. Now, Sam is a certified pussy-eating weapon. He knows your body better than anyone possibly could. You’re over the edge in a minute flat.
Your climax flies through you in one whizzing, sparking rush, then keeps flying, until your body’s squeezing out little squeaky pleas for mercy of its own accord. This is his favorite part. You claw into the countertop and wail for it, pushing at the floor in your socks to gain any sort of leverage. To press closer? To squirm away? You have zero fucking clue, since the thought part of your brain has been blasted into a smoking crater. Sam wraps a big arm around your spasming thigh to pin you open, and holy fucking shit, could that man suck the chrome off a tailpipe. His mouth is a whirlwind of licking and suction just on the right side of oh fuck too much that makes your skin feel like it’s fizzing. You are a thread that he’s just pulling and pulling until you’re so thin you could snap into nothing—
You wait for the moment when Sam pops off you, stands up, and goes for his zipper, but he never does. He remains on the floor, determined to lick you through overstimulation and straight into round two. But that’s a whole minute you could spend with his dick inside you instead, and there’s no fucking way you’re wasting that. Not when he’s here and real and not going to say yes. Sam’s not going anywhere. He’s staying, he’s alive, and the world isn’t going to end tomorrow.
“No no no,” you bite out in one short, rattling breath. “S-Suh—Sam, please please—” An unexpected sob shreds out of you. “Miss you. Need you.”
You’re actually, genuinely crying, and not entirely in the fun sexed-out way. Sam backs up. He’s not even halfway standing when you wrench him up the rest of the way, straight into a desperate, maddening kiss. It’s a brutal cross of teeth and tongue. The need for body heat and skin and him burns through you like genuine bloodlust, so you cram yourself up against him with life-or-death urgency. You get your nails into him until you feel something like shirt fabric and viciously yank it over his head, waiting for the moment when he grabs your wrists or shoves you onto the bed o-or—or starts to blow off steam. Cause’ that’s what this is all about, right?
He drags your mouths apart. Sam pants, “Slow down.”
You stop.
This is. This is new.
There’s no slowing, with this. You both go and you keep going until there’s no more fuel in your tanks, and you crawl out of bed the next day feeling like you’ve beaten the rot out of each other. You’ve never once slowed down during this before, and as your wheels spin to a halt for the first time, reality filters back in around you.
Sam stares at you. His hair is all over the place. A patchy blush speckles up his heaving chest, burning in his ears and in his cheeks. Your slick shines on his lips and the bulb of his nose. He’s just standing there and fucking looking at you, but for whatever reason it feels like the color has seeped back into the world.
“S’okay. Gonna be okay,” Sam hushes, bleeding with sweetness.
He picks up your hands, moving you as if you were a delicate glass he was turning over in each palm. Each of your hands are kissed in the center (oh my fucking god) then wrapped around his neck, and when he has you in his bubble he scoops up your face and kisses you.
It’s a boyfriend kiss. Not a blowing off steam thing, or any other excuse the two of you have used to feel each other. A genuine, I’m your boyfriend and I love you sort of kiss, foreheads pressed together, noses touching, the whole nine yards. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to say something. Every inch of what he’s trying to tell you echoes through your body in one ringing smash, like you’re a big cymbal he’s taken a mallet to. 
He slips off your lips and hovers, bracing himself for impact. You suck in a rattling breath.
…Then you press up onto your tiptoes to give him a kiss of your own, just pressing your lips against his, unmoving. It’s undemanding; an answer. You try to find the words to describe the shift that’s occurred between you, and end up feeling stuttery and shivery and fucking elated. Romantic. It’s fucking romantic.
“Sammy,” you sob out.
“Shhh. C’mere,” Sam whispers, his voice throaty and whiskey smooth. “Lemme make it better.”
He tries to walk you straight back out of the bathroom and towards the bed, he really does, but you stop Sam every other step to overwhelm him with obsessed, affectionate kisses. God. His chapstick is all over your fucking mouth (along with your slick) and his hands are everywhere else, feeling instead of grabbing.
“You always do,” you breathe, and that might be the most honest thing you’ve ever said to him in bed.
Sam gets this quiet, pleased smile on his face. No matter how naked and turned-on you are, you’ve always got a snappy reply ready, and you’re about to throw one at him—until you’re fucking obliterated. He smoothes his palms down your arms. Your wrists are scooped up again. With all the tenderness on the planet, Sam slides in close, kisses your throat, and places both of your hands firmly on his belt.
“Take it off,” he rasps.
This. This isn’t the first time he’s given you that order. But knowing, feeling that he’s playing this all out like it’s more than a fling to him… that Sam’s gonna fuck you like you’re someone special to him… sweet jesus, it makes you lightheaded.
“Bossy,” your murmur, grinning.
You’re downright feverish going in to kiss him next. Sam parts your lips with a slow, sinful swipe of his tongue, and there must be a drop of psychic still in him, because suddenly you’re flooded with visions of that filthy mouth between your legs. You can still feel the ghost of him there, keeping you open with his thumbs as the blunt tip of his tongue pushes you somewhere vast and sparkly and wonderful. This is going to be even better.
He sounds like he’s praying when he says, “I just like to watch you.”
Muscle memory serves. You work his clasp open without peeking down and let it hang in his belt loops, mostly because it lets his jeans sling low on his hips in the most enticing way. His belly twitches at even the slightest touch of your hands; always so responsive. Sam drops his forehead on your shoulder to watch you work, and you take the rare opportunity to kiss the top of his head. This is one of your favorite parts. When his button is undone and his zipper’s down, you’re free to smooth your hand under his waistband and take a big handful of him.
You reach in and—squeeze. Sam’s hand snaps up to clutch your arm. His nails dig in, and he rocks forward onto his tiptoes to really dig into your touch. “Yes.”
It’s the kind of soft, needy sound that makes you want to smother him with kisses and hug him until he suffocates. Instead, you cooly purr into his hair, “So sensitive, Sammy.”
A hoarse, sharp laugh snaps out of him, which dissolves into a shuddering groan. You tug at his jeans until they’re somewhere you don’t care about anymore, and forget about everything else entirely at the sight of his cock. All these years of sneaking around with him have conditioned you. Just seeing the pretty speckling of dark hair that leads to it, then the real deal, hanging blood-hot and heavy between his legs, makes your tummy flip and your mouth water. One of a million embarrassing Sam-reactions you’ll have to bring to your grave.
You take his cock in your hand, trying to swallow back the slutty amount of saliva in your mouth. Sam whimpers. A real, desperate sound, with his nails stinging down your arms and everything.
“Know you wanted to slow down,” you struggle between open-mouthed pants, “b-but—can’t—don’t wanna wait—”
Sam physically curls towards you, his hips seizing into your hand and his arms hooking around your shoulders. You’re dragged in for a sloppy kiss so deep you swear it melds your souls together. Sam is just as affected, rumbling like a racecar in approval.
“Then don’t.” He begs.
If this was any other night, Sam would just take. You’d be face down and drilled halfway through the mattress by now, no preamble, all business. He got off and you got off and everyone was happy that way. Sam would want the room dark and you would hide your face in the bedding, the two of you eager to touch and experience but terrified of breaking the illusion. He’s so generous that you suppose he’s got to have at least one place in life where he’s selfish, and you’re happy to be his outlet for it, but.
You’ve never seen him take this way before.
He looks at you and he never really stops, transfixed. You don’t doubt you could walk in a circle around him and Sam’s eyes would follow you the whole way, his gaze oozing with longing and something else—resolution? Faith? You push him onto the bed, and he drops down as if hobbling into a pew for the first time, unsure how to clasp his hands in prayer because it’s only ever been something done in his head before.
You stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do next.
“God,” Sam utters, spellbound. 
You’re blushing so hard that you forget to be sexy as you crawl into his lap, but Sam doesn’t care, still giving you those big slow doe blinks to express his love. It’s so different from the Sam you know (yet also so deeply, deeply him) that you forget what it means to be sexy entirely. He coaxes you closer to plant tender kisses under your chin, and the plan to seductively peel off your sweater for him and flash him your tits blips out of existence.
You wait for the moment when Sam shreds the Stanford sweater off you. Instead, those wonderful fucking hands tease under the hem to squeeze your waist, and Sam croaks out between kisses, “Should wear this all the time. You’re beautiful in anything, but this… you’re… mmn.”
Your heart gives a pathetic flutter. You press mindless kisses against his mouth and rock your bare core down on his lap, because he’s never acted this way before and you don’t know how else to return the favor. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, Sammy.”
The only reaction you get from him is a single huff out of his nose, like it’s something he can’t commit a whole laugh to. Like none of that matters anymore, like it would never matter for Sam, because his body may be beautiful, but it hardly belongs to him anymore. God, you’re shitty at compliments.
You’re fucking wonderful, you suddenly want to tell him. A whole swarm of little truths and sweet nothings roars straight up to the surface of your mind, a whole sea of better things you could say to him, but then one of those perfect hands is slipping between your legs and Sam’s asking you in that perfect, tinted glass voice, “You still on the pill?”
“Yes, doctor,” you tease.
Another flood of sticky heat rushes between your legs, because that question is always a precursor to being pressed into and filled and stuffed end-to-end by Sam’s dick. The one barrier that doesn’t—didn’t exist between you.
“Good,” Sam sighs, relieved, grateful. He never turned down going raw in the past, but he’s downright starved for it right now. Closer closer closer, his whole body begs.
You’re tugged in by a big hand hooked around your back, and you fall right into Sam’s summer-warm, sweat-sticky chest, giggling. He loops both arms around your middle and teddy-bear squeezes even more laughter out of you. The only way to hold yourself up is by planting two hands on his shoulders… which turns into his cupping his neck… then caressing his face, because it’s impossible to be witness to that quiet boyish grin and not shower him in affection. There’s all these little freckles on him that you can only see up close. He feels good, mystical good, prophetic-chosen-one type good.
This is the moment. You can feel the blood in your body pounding between your legs, and Sam’s cock bumps not-so-innocently against your core as you kiss one another. Every shift of his hands sends your muscles clenching tight, bracing for impact, but Sam doesn’t push into you just yet.
Your confusion must be clear on your face, because he says, “Just let me feel you for a second.”
And, obviously, you’re not an idiot, so you let Sam feel you for as long as he pleases. For the next ten uninterrupted minutes, you makeout like lovesick teenagers, whimpering and sighing and swallowing every sound the other makes. You’d always pegged him as a romantic. But seeing it, feeling it, adds a whole new dimension to him you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.
By the time the pool of need in your gut has opened up into a blackhole, Sam has caressed or squeezed or kissed every part of you ten times over. He continues to be weird and obsessed with you. (So still in character, then). Sam even pinches the ends of your ears and smooths his thumbs over the bumps of your ankles, being sexy about it but also a little terrifying. He touches you like he’s never gonna see you again.
Around the time that Sam starts suckling marks into your neck and trying to tickle you under your arms, you giggle out, “O-Okay—okay! Enough—!”
“Enough what?” Sam cocks his head. His hand makes another dive for your belly, making you shriek and squirm with more giggles. You try to wriggle away to protect your tickling sides, but Sam’s too strong and you’re a little in love with him, so it’s easy for him to pull you flush against him and blow tingly-warm breaths beside your ear. He purrs, “You need it that badly?”
“Fucking yes! So quit torturing me,” you pant, and you’re pretty sure this grin is going to get stuck on your face.
Sam’s smile gets even bigger. “Only if you say please.”
Your attitude slips from your grip like water. Next time, you’ll play push and pull with him, but right now there needs to be a lot more pushing and pulling in a different context.
The words are out of your mouth in an instant. “Please, Sam.”
As reluctant as he is to stop teasing you, Sam’s a little in love, too. He leans back enough to fist his cock in one hand, and you can’t help how your breath hitches when Sam’s touch follows the curve of your ass to where you’re soaked and sensitive for him. Those thick, maddening fingers spread you open. The velvety tip of his cock finds your hole right away, and your legs nearly give out when Sam starts to swipe himself up and down your folds one dizzying stroke at a time. Back…. and forth. Up… and down. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Okay, fine…” He concedes, his eyes glittering with joy. “You’re just so cute when you act all tough.”
Maybe not all of your attitude is gone. You bark out a laugh, telling him, “I hate you.”
Sam presses down for the last time, then presses in. You don’t mean to look into his eyes when he fills you up, and that’s probably what does you in. Sam’s rosy face flutters and twists with pleasure, but he never stops looking at you, not even once, terrified to miss even a small moment. The long hitching moan that slips out of you makes his whole face darken with desire. You’re pulled onto him deeper and deeper and deeper until—click. Cue the angel choir.
Your fingers dig desperately into his hair. Sam curls into you in one slow pulling movement, a thread pulled taut, until his face is stuffed in your neck and his hands are mindlessly scrabbling down your back.
“God, I love you,” he moans.
Soon your pussy feels achy and hair-trigger-sensitive and beyond full, which could mean that you’re all the way on him. It’s impossible to tell, since the first full minute of having Sam’s dick inside you sends you straight to the moon every time, where everything falls in peaceful slow-motion and the whole world hums with cosmic, sparkling pressure. You shove your face into him and nuzzle in a daze, little ripples of electricity sparking up your spine.
…Wait.
“What?” You register, slow.
Sam is still clutching you for dear life, even if the moment’s slowed and you’re both comfortable. He hugs you full-bodied, nose in your neck, tilted forward, the kind of hug where he sways you side to side with joy. Sam sucks in a harsh breath. Can’t hold back anymore.
“I love you,” he gushes. The words burn out of him, declarative, overjoyed.
There’s so much you want to say to that. But then Sam digs his fingers into your ass and pulls you off his lap, only to gloriously sink you down the rest of the way, and. Fuck fuck fuck. His cock drags thick and hot against the pliant walls of your pussy. You couldn’t be any more full if you tried, clamping down on him with long, silky ripples of pressure that outline the shape of him inside you in obscene detail. It’s the kind of mind-blowing that’s beyond comprehension, beyond feeble human understanding. Your eyes squeeze shut and you whimper into his hair.
“God, I love you,” he chants again through grit teeth. “So much. So fucking much.”
You find his face with your hands and kiss him quiet, tasting the promise in his mouth. When you part and the two of you really start to move, you kiss him again, and again, whispering where only he can hear, “I-I love you too.”
It should scare you how easily the confession slips out. You should be terrified, because even if you live to see next week, or next month, or next year, even if Sam isn’t saying yes to Lucifer, those words are a death sentence. And yet.
“I-I miss you,” you choke out, “I need you.”
“Me too. So much,” Sam soothes, his voice tight and sharp with restraint. You know his instinct is to jackhammer up into you and never stop, but he puts in effort to resist, letting you both marinate in the wonderful, glistening, twitchy feeling of each other. His hands are rubbing your back and he is so fucking warm, turning the rain outside to steam.
He doesn’t bounce you on his dick. It’s more of a slow, cresting drag, waves stroking a beach. You don’t think you could handle much more than that, anyway—sometimes these positions make him feel big enough to pop you like a balloon. What you can’t fit on your own, your weight pushes you down onto anyway, turning your whole body into a big expanding bubble of pressure ready to burst at any moment. You clutch at his shoulders and just throb around him for a second.
“Nuh-uh,” Sam leans away, not letting you shove your face in him like you want. Instead, a big hand cups one side of your neck and keeps you in front of him. “Wanna see your face. Look at me. Look at me,” he insists, genuinely pleading.
When your eyes find his, that’s when he decides to snap up into you for real. You don’t even get a full look at him. The arm slung around your waist drags you up off your wobbling knees, then slams you down into a beautiful, endless white space popping with color.
“Sammy!” You choke.
That’s the magic word. You’re instantly thrust up into four more lightning-fast times, one-two-three-four, and hitch out four squeaky gasps to match. Sam’s eyes bore into yours with every beat, blazing with liquid love. For a second you wonder if you’ve fallen back into your rough routine again. But then words and thoughts melt out of your brain altogether, because Sam draws you into the tenderest, sweetest kiss human beings are capable of, fucking into you deep and smooth with that deeper, smoother voice, “Keep saying that.”
Sammy Sammy Sammy, you rattle out under your breath. Sam hisses out your name the exact same way.
You do your best to help him out a little, bobbing up and down in his lap, but’s a drop of water in the ocean for him. All Sam cares about is seeing your reaction. He soaks up everything you do like a sponge, moaning when you moan, gritting his teeth when you bite your lip, grinding up as you stir down. The weight of his eyes on you is so heavy that your skin stings in its wake. Again, it’s Sam’s brand of freak-sweetness that makes you get stupid notions in your head about wedding rings and anniversary presents. But that’s—
…something he knows about. Something he just said to you five minutes ago. Above the haze of bouncing, rhythmic pleasure, you’re flooded with relief. You can tell him! Holy fuck, you can tell him!
“I love you,” you gasp out again, and just saying it feels like it could save the world. “O-oh, god, Sam—”
The breath you have left is stolen from you by another fierce kiss from him, so passionate it lets you taste the bassy, happy hum that rumbles in Sam’s throat. You’re devoured by feverish kisses for a full minute, then Sam pops off you to sob, “So much—so fucking much, yes.”
He slips a hand between the two of you to thumb your clit, stirring in and never once stopping. Every so often he’ll brush up against where you’re hot and filled to the hilt with him, your bodies sliding together with slick, filthy noises that are so—so fucking much that your thighs cramp up, protesting the constant pistoning. But the pleasure is easily worth the burn. Your core booms with long echoes of pleasure that shudder through the trembling spiderwebs that make up your nerves. You make a move to lean back on your hands and switch up the angle, (since you’re a damn good cowgirl, thank you very much), but Sam refuses to stop kissing you. He physically pulls you back in with a hand fished around your neck and kisses you breathless, determined to pound you to your climax one thorough snap of his hips at a time.
“So beautiful,” Sam gushes. His voice is hoarse and thready, like he’s moments away from bursting into tears of pure desire.
You smooth your hands down his flushed cheeks, telling him between huffy moans, “It’s okay, s’ okay, Sammy… so pretty… love you so much…”
You feel him pull the Stanford sweater up over your ass and out of his way, exposing more, more, more of your bare skin for him to touch. Sam palms the slope of your back and your belly in a daze, but that’s still not enough—he’ll never be satisfied with how little of you he’s had. He wants more. He wants forever. You embrace each other to the fullest, cheeks smushed together, chests flush, his parted lips claiming your throat, making you his—but. Sam’s breath ratchets up. Not enough not enough not enough—
In one ragged motion, Sam rolls you both over, tossing you back-first onto the bedding and smothering you with his weight.
A squeal of delight jumps out of you. “Hey!”
If Sam wasn’t all over you before, then he literally is now, dropping onto his elbows so he can cup your face in both hands and surround you completely. “Sorry,” he croaks, “need you. Need to fill you up.”
You whisper against his lips, “Then fill me up already.”
His thumbs press into your cheeks a little. Sam’s breath fans across your face, throttled by the lump in his throat.
“Tell me you love me again.”
Um. You don’t exactly have the sexy heat of the moment to hide behind this time, but you still want to say it for him. His eyes swim with something unreadable. Desire and love, enough love to put a lump in your throat too, but a third thing also. It worries you.
You bring your hands up to stroke his wrists, and give a bit too much of your soul to him when you promise, “...I love you, Sam.”
The words hit him like a bullet. Sam shudders from head to toe, unable to reign himself in any longer, and plants a long, surging kiss on your mouth that makes your belly flash with nuclear levels of lust. He squirms his hands underneath your body so he can cradle you against him—genuinely cradling, one palm cupping the back of your neck—and then burrows into you face-first, groaning your name as his cock nestles itself as deep as it can go.
With all of his weight on top of you, you couldn’t move if you wanted to. You caress and kiss and dig your nails into him, and somewhere along the way you’re given a dose of whatever has made him fucking insane for you right now. It fogs your head and turns your reason to ash, so when Sam returns to ruining you for any other man, you whimper, “Please don’t leave me.”
“Oh, baby,” Sam hiccups out, and something strange hangs in his voice.
You would ask him what’s wrong, but the shuddering, flimsy scraps left of your brain are busy being blasted all over by white-hot pleasure. Everything scorches. Sam’s bare skin and his breath and his hands feel fucking molten, melting you down like hot glass. You’re pinned down in every possible way, and it pushes the sinking, gorgeous pressure inside you all over your body, like it’s not just Sam’s cock filling you up, but him, just him, the source of all good in the world. Holy fucking fuck. His hips glide back and then thud back into you again and again and again. You get why it’s called making love, now. You can taste your love for him in the back of your throat, feel it sitting in a sticky film on your skin. It hangs like humidity in the air of your apartment. And jesus christ, it bleeds from Sam, glowing off him like fucking radiation.
When you’re shamelessly wailing gut-deep in ecstasy, Sam peels himself off you. He forces himself to sit up. His chest putters up and down with desperate little breaths, and a gloriously big hand scoops under your thigh and welds it against your chest. Whatever he sees from this new angle—probably your wet, abused pussy stretched tight around the full base of his cock—makes Sam gape, utterly transfixed. You watch as his mouth falls open, and then those dark, soul-swallowing eyes crawl up your body to meet yours.
“Keep lookin’ at me,” Sam rasps.
Even if he doesn’t sway your opinion with a few dizzying, stomach-deep drags of his cock, (which he does), you’re convinced. You lock eyes with him—and then suddenly feel stupid for not watching him the whole time. A long curl of hair hangs in his eyes and sways as he fucks into you. His expression flutters with these sinful little giveaways, exposing just how starved he is for you, how in love. Maybe if you’d looked back sometime in the past five years, that’s what you would’ve seen: how much this has always meant to him. He searches your face for the same pleasure, obsessed with his effect on you. 
“Fuck,” you shudder out. “C-could cum just watchin’ you, Sammy.”
“That’s right,” he hisses, and you’ve never heard him sound so damn happy. “Cum for me. Please. Look so pretty when you do.”
Usually, when he makes you cum, it’s the roughest part of the whole act. He’d get both your wrists pretzeled behind your back and pinned viciously in one of his hands, and that’s when you’d know the big finish was coming. His pace would go from bouncing to bruising. But this Sam, your Sam, would stop time if he could, so he slows down even further, winding you closer and closer to the top of the mountain with little figure-eights of his hips. He gazes down at you the same way you’re sure you must gaze up at him. Beautiful, he murmurs under his breath.
You utter another, tight, almost-sob of, “love you so much, Sammy,” and his dick twitches wildly shoved in you to the hilt.
“Ohh—shit,” he chokes out, and his other hand snaps desperately towards yours on the bed. They find each other easily, and you squeeze his hand with everything you’ve got, infusing in him all the love he’s infused in you.
The slow, mounting tsunami of perfection you’ve been moving towards finally overcomes you, and in one long gorgeous slippery rush you cum for Sam. And because your life is a movie—he cums for you too. He rocks faster and falls forward to kiss you, your faces pressed together, your mouths slotting against each other, your pussy squeezing down on him in golden rippling strokes. Sam hisses your name out between his teeth as he cums. You’re lanced straight through by a whole fucking universe of fluttering, flickering pleasure. To be honest, you’re a little pissed about it—because it’s the best fucking orgasm you’ve had in your entire life, and it’s all because Sam raggedly chants those words to you again and again, laying sloppy, obsessive, head-over-heel kisses all over your face. Love you love you so much baby you feel so good squeezin’ down on me.
You could’ve had this ages ago. How much more time could you have had with him, if you had just stopped being stupid?
Sam’s crazed, sobbing, hitching I love yous somehow become, in true Sam fashion, a low spiral of thank yous. He lays there and clutches you until there’s a Sam-shaped imprint in your body. You’re pretty sure he would stay inside you all night if he could, but you coax him into some cuddling instead, since you both are in desperate need. It’s. It’s new, but it feels cleansing in the holy way.
What feels like hours later, your brain dimly connects to the rest of your body. You’re halfway through detangling Sam’s hair with your fingers as he hides face-first in your chest, pretending he’s not embarrassed that he cried. At least, that’s what you assume. The Winchester mind is a mysterious one, and as much as you would hope to know what Sam’s thinking, the slow hand drawing circles on your hip tells you nothing. Is he shy that he got emotional? That seems silly, since you both sobbed into each other earlier. Is he embarrassed about everything he confessed? Does he regret it?
Just when your train of thought really starts to take the curves of your spiral hard, Sam tiredly croaks into your neck, “I meant what I said, y’know.”
He draws in a lungful of your perfume through his nose, soaking up as much of you as he can possibly get. His hands smooth over your body, innocent and loving, caressing you, memorizing you, begging silently for forgiveness. 
Sam is a dead-silent crier. But you hear him sniffle as he gushes, “God, I love you.”
Maybe if you hadn’t been so tired, you would’ve picked up on it. Or maybe you’d heard it in his voice, seen it, something, and ignored it, hoping it was something else. Everything he felt, he put into a teeny, unmarked box that he’d bury god knows where, far from where anybody could be hurt by it. Sam didn’t—he wouldn’t say that to you. Not unless it was the last time he ever could. He would feel it, but it’d go right into that box where it couldn’t hurt you. You should’ve known.
Lie to me, you’d begged him. 
…And Sam had.
_
The dull realization that you are awake sets in around noon. Noon as in after-noon, well past when you’re normally up and at em’. When you wonder why the hell you slept in so late, you remember last night’s rain, thrashing against the windows all night, and Sam, his face haloed by lamplight and bleeding with quiet resolution.
Sam. Alive, and not going to say yes.
He’d been the one to keep you up all night. With his mouth and his hands, yes, but then afterward he’d been hellbent on talking. Just… talking. You’d been sluggish and cozy and sated after having sex, but no matter how close you came to falling asleep, Sam wouldn’t let it happen. For two straight hours he asked you every question he could come up with to keep you up with him.
Do you remember when we met? Cause’ I do. Do you remember what I said to you? Do you remember what you thought about me? I remember thinking how similar we were, y’know, how much we’d get along. You were so pretty… my whole face went red every time you looked at me. Do you remember…?
Being cuddled, kissed, and protected by the man you love really tempts a girl to doze off, too, so this was not an easy battle. But Sam persisted. He studied your face intently, uttering I love yous even when sleep started to pull you under. Hearing any Winchester drop those words on you still blew your fucking mind, to be honest. Sam especially. But it was romantic as it was worrying, so you’d shut him up with a kiss goodnight and echoed it back to him. Love you, Sammy. It was probably just an anxiety thing, you assumed—Sam, for some fucking reason, was a pretty insecure guy, so you imagined that was his way of making sure you wanted all of this. He seemed… scared. He wasn’t used to being wanted.
The apocalypse was still on. Maybe the world would end tomorrow, or maybe you’d get lucky and live a whole lifetime with Sam. Regardless, he’s never saying yes to Lucifer, and that alone means that there’s still hope for the future. You’re going to spend every second of it making Sam feel wanted.
Sitting up in bed, you scrubbed at your sleepy face with the heel of your hand and stared around the room. Sam was physically incapable of staying asleep after five in the morning, so the familiar evidence of his military-efficient morning routine was all over the place. You smiled to yourself. He’d picked up after the two of you, and had tucked another blanket over you in your sleep. Stupid chivalrous dumbass.
To think, you’d been terrified you’d never see him again just last night.
You push out of bed, only to almost buckle onto the carpet rag-doll style. Even being torturously gentle, that man manages to make you sore. With a very, very happy groan, you hop (and wince) into some clean underwear, then traipse out into your kitchen to show that dork who’s boss.
“Dammit, Samuel, you’re not my maid—” you start to say, but of course, this is Sam, who wouldn’t miss a morning run for anything. Right. That explains your empty kitchen.
…But it’s afternoon. Sam would be back by now. Your gut prickles with a bad feeling, and you superstitiously sweep your apartment, looking for him. His clothes from last night are still sitting in your hamper, his shirt folded neatly in your dresser and his watch on your nightstand. A spike of nausea rolls through you seeing that his jacket is gone—and his boots. But his duffle—it’s. It’s still on your kitchen table. It looks a little smaller than usual, but his books and his laptop are still inside. He probably just ran out to run some silly errand for you, determined to make up for worrying you so much. Yeah.
You force your hunter’s paranoia down to a simmer, padding over to your breakfast table. There’s a big ol’ note smack dab in the center of it, perched on his half-open duffle bag, and you start to play with one of the bracelets Sam left behind as you pick it up.
You cross your fingers, smiling ear-to-ear. “C’mon. All bets on breakfast. Please be getting me breakfast, please be getting me breakfast—”
…That’s not what the note says.
You read it.
Then you read it again, and the hammer falls, crushing the breath out of you and doubling you over the kitchen table. You read the note for the third time, needing to be sure, and the thin sliver of hope you had—maybe you’d just read it wrong, m-maybe he was fine—turns to ash. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
You’re fighting back a surge of ugly, choking tears in an instant. He’s… Sam… he…
Your whole apartment lingers with the heat and goodness of him, like he’d been here just minutes ago. Just seconds. Even your clothes still smell like Sam. Just inhaling it tears chunks out of your reason, like—like you’d just missed him. Clawing around for something to do, you pace in a daze between your bedroom and the front door, desperate to recreate the moment you realized he was gone. You’re still just in the Stanford sweater and your underwear, but you don’t give a single shit and go careening out into the hall, stalking up and down your floor for him—because, b-because Sam wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do that to you—he would tell you first, he would never leave you in the dark like this—
…But you know Sam. And if it meant fixing his mistakes, saving you, saving everyone… Then he’d say yes in a heartbeat.
“These belong to you. You deserve a world to live in. I’m sorry - Sam.”
- tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1@lacilou@cevans-winchester @leigh70@ seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1
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dailyspnpolls · 1 year
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Big Bad Battle
Anon suggested a poll to find the villain with the arc that resonated with you the most. These kinds of questions are hard to put into a poll because Tumblr only gives me 10 option bubbles, but let's give it a go anyway...
Other notable antagonist arcs you could discuss:
Michael as part of Lucifer's arc in S5
Crowley and Castiel in S6
Eve, The Mother of All Monsters in S6
Naomi in S8
Rowena in S10
Dagon in S12 and Asmodeus in S13
ApocalypseWorld!Michael in S13 and 14
...and I'm sure I've forgotten others, and you'll question why some of these aren't in the options over others... but, I'm just one person! Maybe another time we can revisit this as a showdown, so let me have it in the tags and replies!
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dailymichifer · 11 months
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Thinking about Michael's Lance, the one that kills the bad ones fast and the good ones slowly... The one that Michael created himself to use against Lucifer for their final battle (even if it was somehow stolen from him before that). The one that is adorned with special runes that can be destroyed to reverse the effects of the Lance on an angel who is mortally wounded.
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I don't care much about late seasons angel lore (contradictory retcons, bad writing, etc.) but the implications of him making such a weapon are interesting.
Possible in-universe interpretations:
1) [Michael wanted revenge] the distinction between "good beings" and "evil beings" is purely based on their nature (celestial vs demonic), so Lucifer, fallen or not, counts as a "good being" by default and would have died slowly if mortally wounded by the Lance, which was what Michael intended as a way to make him suffer a slow, agonizing death (which is Ramiel's interpretation & probably what the writers wanted us to think as well "There’s only one angel Michael wanted to kill, and he wanted that son of a bitch to suffer." Not very consistent with Michael's S5 characterization, but that's late seasons SPN for you)
2) [Michael wanted to give Lucifer a chance] the distinction between "good beings" and "evil beings" is purely based on their nature (celestial vs demonic), so Lucifer counts as a "good being" and would have died slowly if mortally wounded by the Lance, which was what Michael intended not because it would make him suffer more but because a slow death would have given him a chance to repent and ask God for forgiveness in his last moments (more consistent with the Swan Song script that describes Michael dreaming of them reconciling). He would have then been able to use the runes on the Lance to reverse its effects and heal the wound
3) compatible with 2 [Michael wanted to give Lucifer a quick and merciful death] no matter how the Lance makes the distinction between "good beings" and "evil beings" (species or other criteria), Michael put Lucifer into the "evil" category by default, and Lucifer would have died a quick death if wounded by the Lance no matter what, which is what Michael intended because he did not want to make to make him suffer more than necessary.
4) [Michael wanted to give Lucifer a chance v2] the distinction between "good beings" and "evil beings" is based on something more complex than the species of the person at the other end of the Lance (the person's intentions, that are assigned "good" or "bad" based on Michael's own questionable moral standards?); Lucifer is part of the "evil" category by default, allowing Michael to give him a quick and merciful death, or a slow death that would give Michael the time to revert the effects of the runes if Lucifer showed true repentance and became part of the "good being" category by the Lance's standards (not likely to happen at all but the fact that Michael added that failsafe is interesting*) (*metatextually that failsafe is only there to allow the characters to save Cas but that's not a valid in-universe excuse)
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blue-chimera · 2 months
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Further thoughts re: this post
It never even occurred to me that anyone might expect (or want!) Dean & John to have some big fight in S14:E13 "Lebanon." Dean spends all of seasons 2 & 3 — and some of seasons 4 & 5 — working through his issues with John, including spending time coming to terms with the fact that he's inclined to make the same mistakes that John did (like: selling his soul for Sam, trying to protect Sam by controlling him instead of working with him as an equal partner). And then, in season 6, he learns a hard lesson about the staggering difficulty of keeping a child/family safe and being a good dad while being a hunter, to boot.
All of this life experience helps Dean see John in a more forgiving light. (And that's not even to mention everything Dean goes through processing the same stuff with Mary — the "I hate you and I love you" & all that.)
Anyone who expected a screaming match needs to go back & rewatch S2's What is and What Should Never Be & All Hell Breaks Loose (Part 2), S4's In the Beginning, When the Levee Breaks, & Lucifer Rising, S5's The Song Remains the Same, & S6's Two and a Half Men. And maybe also S6's And Then There Were None. (And to rewatch with an eye to Dean's changing understanding of John, coming to terms with John not just as a distant father-figure on some kind of pedestal but as a person, a person who went through some of the same stuff that Dean's going through.)
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420technoblazeit · 10 months
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complete and factual recap of supernatural for people who want to never watch supernatural:
s1: buzzfeed unsolved/ghost files but with higher stakes. also theres a plot but it's not important.
s2: season 1 part 2 but the plot got wrapped up and theres a new one
s3: demons!!!! also dean's dying and dies in the season finale
s4: sike! hes back. also angles exist now. and they want to stop lucifer from rising
s5: lets put lucifer back in the box before he kills us all (also sam dies kinda)
s6: sike! hes back without a soul. and he's the funniest person in the show for about 22 episodes before they put it back
s7: imagine if water hated you and could take your shape and also was hungry. gotta put those guys back in the supernatural equivalent of the Dark Forest from warrior cats. also dean (and cas) die kinda and go there
s8: they're back! and there's random jumps back to the year it took for dean to get back. and cas is a heaven's boy now. they're trying to close the gates of hell btw
s9: idk what happens here. there's the mark of cain and they're trying to kill a demon but that's about it
s10: i have no idea, i haven't gotten this far bc this season didn't exist last time i watched supernatural. there's probably some killing.
s15: the finale sucks
this is great because i wrote a summary and i ALSO can't remember hwat happened in season 9 it just straight up does not exist not even in a bad way i just can't remember anythign about metatron and abaddon they were so forgettable. but yeah no that's about right. s10 was like the best season since season 5 htough i cant believe u stopped there nonny
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samepisodebracket · 1 year
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Round 1 Finished!
Round 1 polls have all ended! Winners and the percentage by which they won are below the cut. Any episode that won by less than 20% is bolded.
A few notes on the winners:
Only 17 out of 48 winners are from the post-Kripke era.
No episodes from seasons 10 or 15 made it into Round 2.
While the majority of polls were sweeps, the closest race by far was Pac-Man Fever v. Into the Mystic, with PMF coming out on top by 0.6% in the end.
Most polls had around 200-250 votes, with a few outliers in the more controversial polls. Group 24 (3x03 v 3x08 v 6x13) had 446 votes, Group 4 (3x11 v 13x19 v 1x10) had 454 votes, and Group 9 (2x17 v 7x17 v 4x13) had 497 votes.
Only 2 of the 10 episodes from season 5 didn't make it, with one of them losing out to another s5 episode (Swap Meat to Changing Channels). This makes season 5 the most represented season going into Round 2.
Round 2 will be 16 more polls of 3 and will start this Sammy Sunday, 4/2!
Scarecrow (1x11) - 1.8%
Pilot (1x01) - 66.7%
Nightmare (1x14) - 37.7%
Mystery Spot (3x11) - 38.4%
Bloody Mary (1x05) - 74.6%
Metamorphosis (4x04) - 41.7%
Swan Song (5x22) - 83.9%
The Man Who Knew Too Much (6x22) - 75.6%
The Born-Again Identity (7x17) - 7.1%
Hunted (2x10) - 10.2%
On the Head of a Pin (4x16) - 43.8%
Road Trip (9x10) - 20.3%
Shadow (1x16) - 58.5%
Peace of Mind (14x15) - 17.4%
The Girl Next Door (7x03) - 20.6%
When the Levee Breaks (4x21) - 68.3%
Born Under a Bad Sign (2x14) - 15.7%
Home (1x09) - 47.8%
Plucky Pennywhistle's Magical Menagerie (7x14) - 13.1%
Lucifer Rising (4x22) - 75.7%
Hello, Cruel World (7x02) - 85.4%
I Know What You Did Last Summer (4x09) - 59.6%
Free to be You and Me (5x03) - 22.8%
Bad Day at Black Rock (3x03) - 4.5%
Repo Man (7x15) - 50.2%
Changing Channels (5x08) - 11.7%
The Song Remains the Same (5x13) - 10.7%
Playthings (2x11) - 51.1%
Dark Side of the Moon (5x16) - 58.9%
Sacrifice (8x23) - 57.9%
Good God, Y'all! (5x02) - 70%
American Nightmare (12x04) - 69.2%
Houses of the Holy (2x13) - 89.2%
Sam, Interrupted (5x11) - 81.8%
All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2 (2x22) - 51%
Appointment in Samarra (6x11) - 14%
The Great Escapist (8x21) - 6.8%
Lost and Found (13x01) - 23.2%
All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1 (2x21) - 76.2%
99 Problems (5x17) - 60.4%
Devil's Trap (1x22) - 47.4%
Just My Imagination (11x08) - 49.2%
It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester (4x07) - 24.2%
Red Meat (11x17) - 85%
Pac-Man Fever (8x20) - 0.6%
It's a Terrible Life (4x17) - 84.8%
My Bloody Valentine (5x14) - 82.8%
Meet the New Boss (7x01) - 29.2%
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maggot-monger · 10 months
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lucifer gender symbolism essay part 9: sexual connotations of “vessels,” stabbing, and holes
masterpost
this section is pretty handwavey tbh, but i’m going to get into it anyway because i think there’s something here. several things, even. it makes more sense than some freudian analysis i've read, anyway, so, let's go.
[cw 1: this section discusses violent metaphors for sexual penetration — although in an abstract way that does not address consent or lack thereof.]
[cw 2: this section uses genital symbolism in some sexual contexts. the symbolism also kind of assumes some connections between genitals, sex, and gender.]
obviously, “vessel” in supernatural signifies that a person has the potential to be filled with an angel. in the world of sexual metaphors, the human has the yonic, receptive (traditionally female) role, while the angel has the phallic, penetrative (traditionally male) role. it’s pretty direct.
the only reason i’m bothering with going “maybe it’s not so simple” is because of the vocabulary used to refer to dean (and, later, adam). dean is michael’s vessel, but he’s also the michael sword — and a sword, as we all know, is a dick! so what does that mean? well, it means they had vessel vocabulary and they had symbolism of michael striking down the devil with a sword and just went “yeah these can coexist.” but if nothing else, i’ve proven by this point that i can and will make a mountain out of a molehill. my molehill mountain here is that michael’s sword represents not only the thing michael fills with himself, but also the thing he uses to penetrate others. 
several directions to go with lucifer, from that.
the first is that sam is formally referred to only as lucifer’s vessel. so the “michael’s vessel” terminology corresponds to the “lucifer’s vessel” terminology, but the “michael sword” terminology either 1) has no equivalent, or 2) also corresponds the “lucifer’s vessel” terminology. the former is what i think is actually right, but the latter is fun to think about, right? michael’s body is a thing intended to be used to penetrate; lucifer’s body is a thing intended to be filled. 
the second direction is that, while sam is only formally described as lucifer’s vessel, he is also informally described as lucifer’s prom outfit. an outfit is, in a sense, something intended to be filled, but it’s not typically a sexual thing between the garment and the body wearing it, so much as it is that someone will wear a prom outfit to a dance to make themself look more attractive. so michael gets a traditionally masculine symbol of penetration, and lucifer gets an ambiguously-gendered (neither explicitly dress nor suit), adolescent symbol of wanting to be hot.
the third direction i have for this isn’t about vessels, but is about weaponry. this isn’t really a feminine/woman/whatever!lucifer point so much as a non-masculine/whatever!lucifer point, but. eh. neither michael nor lucifer ever gets their archangel blade out in s5 at any point. we can probably assume that michael has one that he can access easily; we know gabriel still has his, and gabriel would have less reason to still have his than michael would. also since everyone including michael seems pretty confident that michael will be able to kill lucifer, it seems unlikely that he does not have a blade on him. if nothing else, his vessel is his sword, and he shows up to the stull fight wearing a vessel. lucifer, though…who even knows if lucifer has a blade anymore. lucifer uses his hands and powers to kill most of the time, and he kills gabriel by turning gabriel’s blade back on him. i’m not the first to suggest that lucifer doesn’t have his own blade anymore, that that’s something he lost in his fall, but i do endorse that view. castration metaphor, anyone? 
the last thing i have here is that it is at least implied that michael would take lucifer down by stabbing him. what ends up happening is that lucifer takes michael down by pulling him into a hole. so. there’s that. dick vs pussy ways to end the apocalypse. 
here’s a post i made but it doesn’t really add a ton. 
anyway. 
devil hole. 
part 8: jarpad and mark p's acting styles part 10: villain gender in supernatural, comparisons masterpost
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blacknidstang · 4 months
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2, 9, 12, 17 💓💓
Hiii hellooo <33
Alright here we gooo
2) overall worst season
OH BOY WHERE DO I START. Ok i think s15 is a very easy answer to this and it is the objective answer but the show being burdened by corona and if I'm not wrong, number of new writers, i cannot take it seriously. However for me, very personally s12 was the most unwatchable one. Like yes s13 is also wretched with all the fucking dinosaurs and just overall terrible everything but i got more soft spot for it. S12 does not land on his feet because i think the writers in that very specific season forgot how to write Sam & Dean's dynamic & this entire show has its golden moments because of them so if you mess that up you lose everything . Plus i think bmol were worst than dinosaurs & empty & apocalyptic world & dean/lucifer mid air fight. The only unexpectedly amazing scene there was Dean's speech in Mary's head and if it wasn't for that, i'd find a way to wipe this season from face of the universe.
9) best season finale
CAN I EVER GIVE A STRAIGHT ANSWER? NO. i am always very very torn betwen ahbl and swan song. I think both are unforgettable masterpieces and both hold different values to me. I often end up voting for swan song myself bc it felt like SUCH a conclusion to a big story. And because of the "Impala Story" that literally ruined me but there's something about Swan Song that was very overall perfect.
With ahbl i dare to say, it holds probably some of my favorite moments in the entire tv show history. The same way swan song was the conclusion to the story, ahbl was a conclusion to a very emotional build up that blew me away. I think story-wise tho the second part especially was less impactful for me. In the entirety of the episode it"s the beginning aka. Dean's speech and the ending witj Sam's "did i die dean?" THOSE where the ones that stayed with me. Much more than the whole deal with closing the hell's gate. So when i rewatch i'm watching thes3 selected scenes: Sam's death, dean selling his soul & them facing this decision at the end. It was life altering for me but swan song as an episode on a whole level remained more with me.
Then there's also Sacrifice. That finale remains the best episode ever after Kripke. I can't put above the other two but it also is so amazing on every single level that i cannot NOT mention it
12) favorite sam season
I love sam in every episode and every season but if i gotta pick, I think sam in s5 is my upmost favorite one bc of how beaten and ruined he is. I can go forever and ever peeling off layers of his self hatred, self doubts, wish to grow, to make up for everything, all leading to his big sacrifice. This makes my heart ache over and over and over. And after that it would be s10, i love when is just fucking unhinged doing messiest thing, trial era and s9 just because he is so fucking pretty in s9. Prettiest malewife ever.
17) favorite villain
Without a shadow of doubt it would be Azazel for me. Everything about this character was perfect. The actor's delivery, the way he ruined lives, the danger he posed that i never felt the felt repeating in the series ever again.
Except for one.
See i love characters like Crowley and Lucifer (pre-Dabb especially) but i like them more as characters than villains, but beside Azazel there's one imo underrated villain that really fucked me up and it's Zachariah. I think there was something so vile about an angel being that manipulative and vicious. The scene in dark side of the moon with Mary still makes my skin crawl & i think just like Azazel's actor, this guy delivered every scene with such brilliant wretchedness that i cannot help but be in love with.
Spn discourse asks
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antigonewinchester · 9 months
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15x04 (part 2)
So then there’s the prominent Becky and Chuck sideplot. Here’s where I’m pulling my Chuck as ‘bad fan’ from, in how Becky and Chuck are contrasted. Becky, who previously represented the obsessive fan back in S5 & S7, has become a “good” fan: she has her own life, complete with husband and kids, while still also being in fandom, writing fic, and loving “Supernatural.” She can separate reality from fiction, and uses fandom as her own mode of healthy expression. In comparison to how she was portrayed before, wow is it a much nicer and fairer picture of fans & fandom!
BECKY Still what? [She hands CHUCK a drink.] CHUCK Uh, obsessed with my work. BECKY You mean my work. Look, what you were writing, it was real… like, really real. You sort of channelled Sam and Dean’s lives because you’re a prophet. CHUCK I… Yeah. Yes, I am. BECKY And, sure, I got a little obsessed, and it took me to a dark place. What I did to Sam… [shudders] So, after some pretty intensive counselling, I realized I wasn’t in love with the real Sam Winchester. I loved his character. So instead of reading your stories, I kept writing my own. CHUCK Your own… “Supernatural”? BECKY Where the guys didn’t have to hunt monsters all the time. They just sit around and do laundry and talk, you know? I mean, that’s what people like the most, anyway. CHUCK Well, I mean, people like monsters. BECKY Meh. Anyway, I got an online following, and it wasn’t paying the bills, so I started making these handcrafted miniatures. They took off, started turning a profit, and here I am. CHUCK Right. Right, right, right, right, right. But people like monsters though. They do. I mean, Leviathans are cool. What? They’re all teeth! ... BECKY B-But it’s so…dark. CHUCK But great, right? I can see it now… “Supernatural: The End”. And the cover is just a gravestone that says “Winchester”. The fans are gonna love it. Well? BECKY It’s awful! Horrible. It’s hopeless. [BECKY gets up from the chair and walks around the desk to CHUCK.] You can’t do this to the fans. What you did to Dean? What you did to Sam? CHUCK There, see? It’s making you feel something. That’s good, right? BECKY No!
Chuck, on the other hand, wants danger and tragedy and monsters who can’t be saved, writing something that’s focused solely on Sam & Dean (leaving out Cas explicitly, implicitly the other characters) out of it, what’s implied to be some horrible ending for both Sam & Dean that leaves Becky aghast. And then Chuck snaps away Becky’s husband and kids, and then Becky herself, in a move that mirrors the ending climax of the show, where Chuck snaps away all the universe except for Sam, Dean & Jack. (Plus the whole Michael & Lucifer bit.) Plus, Chuck wanting “his” story to end in conflict between Sam & Dean, and implied w/ Dean killing Sam, is how the end of 15x17 could’ve shaken out in Dean pulling a gun on Sam before Sam is able to talk him back to reality. (And yes, I will have more thoughts on 15x17 when I get there.)
DEAN Yeah. Yeah, we would. Look, man, I get it. I get it. We have lost way, way too much. And it’s hard not to feel like just… cashing out. I felt like that. After Chuck, back at the crypt. But you know what brought me back? You did. By sayin’ that what we do still matters. I mean, that’s why I wanted to drag us out here. That’s why I wanted to… to work a case, to save lives, you know? ‘Cause it is… it’s a… it’s crap job. We do the ugly thing so that people can live happy. SAM Yeah. Yeah. Lucky them. DEAN Yeah, lucky them. But it doesn’t change a thing. You know what I mean? We still do the job. But we don’t do it for us. We do it for Jack, for mom, for Rowena. We owe it to anybody who has ever given a damn about us to keep putting one foot in front of the other. No matter what. And hey, man, like you said, now that Chuck’s gone, we’re finally on our own. We are finally free to… move on, you know? SAM I don’t know. Uh… I-I don’t know if I can move on. You know, I-I-I… I can’t forget about any of them. Dean, I still think about Jessica. I… I can’t just let that go. DEAN No, man, that’s not what I’m talking about. SAM I know, I know, I know. I’m sorry. I know. But… but what I’m saying is that I don’t feel free. What we’ve done, what we’ve lost, right now, that is what I’m feeling, and… and sometimes it’s… it’s like I-I-I can’t even breathe. But maybe tomorrow. You know, maybe I’ll… I’ll feel better in the morning. DEAN And what if you don’t? SAM I don’t know.
This final convo between Sam and Dean, then, feels like foreshadowing for how Sam is still able ‘carry on’ after Dean’s death in 15x20, as horrible as that loss is, before he’s reunited with him in Heaven, in contrast to how discouraged and distraught here in 15x04. And then how the ending in Heaven contrasts w/ Chuck’s sole focus on Sam & Dean, although obvs covid screwed things up a bit. The ending where Sam & Dean actually reunited w/ all their friends in Heaven is implied rather than explicitly shown in the finale we got, but the spirit of it is still there, even if there’s still the focus on Sam & Dean reuniting. Bobby’s there with Dean, he literally mentions Cas (w/ the implication that Jack rescued Cas from the Empty & they remade Heaven together), and the idea that Heaven is not longer closed off rooms of memories but everyone interacted with each other together. Everyone’s regained and reunited with the loved ones they’ve lost, even if they had to still face that loss & suffering on earth.
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destieltaggedfic · 2 years
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Canon Divergence - Part 6
I can’t believe I haven’t done one of these for ages
Redemption - MagickMaker, TheFangedGoblin   Ao3
Set S4 AU. The Winchesters get word of a strange man that demons are after.  It turns out that during Dean’s rescue Castiel lost his grace and ended up on earth.  Something that Dean is going to repay by protecting him from both demons and angels. Sam isn’t so quick to trust the bond that immediately springs up between his brother and the ex-angel.
Word Count: 73k                              Graphic Sexual Acts    
Ineffable – KaRaEa   Ao3
Set PostS15 & S5 AU. Frustrated that Jack’s new rule about angels not being allowed contact with the human heavens means that he will be separated from Cas forever, Dean accepts a do-over.  The ability to go back to one significant point in his life to choose differently on the condition that Cas can come with him, he chooses the moment Cas chose to help him try to stop Lucifer rising.
Word Count: 37k                              No Sex  
Eighteen (I've Got To Get Away) – bexgowen   Ao3
Set Pre S1 AU.   After John accidentally hits Sam one night, Dean patiently waits until he turns 18 and then takes Sam to settle down in one place so his brother has a decent chance at finishing high school without the dangers of living the hunting life.  This normal life doesn’t stop Sam’s visions from starting or a curious angel becoming his friend.
Word Count:123k                             Graphic Sexual Acts  
Only Human Series– BobWess   Ao3
Set S9 AU.  After refusing to send Cas away from the bunker, there are new challenges when both Abaddon and the angels are after the boys. And as much as some things along the way change other things stay the same when Dean takes on the MoC.  Part 2 of the series is an alternate S10 and Part 3, an alternate S11 is currently being written.
Word Count: 163k                            Non-Graphic Sex  
Life after Michael. – NightOfFanfics   Ao3
Set S14 AU.  Expelling Michael from Dean’s body has activated Cas’ grace that was left in Dean from his hell rescue.  This had led to Dean presenting angelic attributes including wings and a shiny stamp of approval from heaven.
Word Count: 90k                              Graphic Sexual Acts
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so real and true supernatural really is thee most show ever. absolutely insane viewing experience, 10/10
and like i watched the entire series in 3 months the first time, but i've been rewatching it for the last like two years and i keep ignoring wherever i am on my rewatch and going and watching random early seasons episodes too so i feel that. you're rewatching some GREAT episodes too, i've seen mystery spot sooo many times as well, it slaps every single time
after s5 it definitely goes downhill like. objectively speaking. but the later seasons introduce some really good characters and some very enjoyable plotlines and it's all definitely a worthwhile part of the experience (except for the finale. the finale has no redeeming qualities it's very bad. you would not be missing anything if you never watched the finale lmao)
but yeah every single one of the things you listed did technically happen and. yeah. some of it is great, but it sure is wild. my favourite pastime is telling my friends who've never seen spn increasingly wild plot points and seeing what breaks their brain
anyways please never apologize for rambling about supernatural, i am obsessed with supernatural the rambling is great <33 what season are you on currently?
haha oh i'm glad i wasn't annoying! i'm on season 8 right now, up to episode 13 Everybody Hates Hitler (it's been about 3 months since i watched the one before it XD), and yeah as you said i really do think it went downhill after season 5 and seeing sam and dean change their point of view on so many things that make NO SENSE (like sam in season 2 almost immediately making an exception for some nice vampires and trying to get dean to see reason and then in season 7-8 just randomly deciding "no, they are MONSTERS and they WILL kill again that's final", only for DEAN to this time be the vampire apologist) is driving me bananas. it feels like they just ran out of arguments for the two to be having and decided to throw darts at a wall about it.
i'm glad to know that my jigsaw puzzle of information about the last few seasons is correct(ish) though, like i wasn't going to google it in case i was wrong and accidentally found out MORE spoilers but like. thank you for confirming. i'll find out the details... atttt some point i'm sure :D
i got my friend into it (they haven't finished it either), and it is so much fun telling them about stuff they haven't seen yet, also i hyped up both lucifer and cas so much i think the expectations for them are a little high now lmao. on the plus side my friend saw cas in 4x01 one (1) time and decided he's the most precious special little guy in the whole show though, so that's fun :))
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amtrak12 · 1 year
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Lucifer Rewatch Liveblog: 1.02
We’re doing it again! And again I am so nervous about it. And also trying to stop myself out of embarrassment -- not the liveblogging part. No, just watching the episode in general. Who are you embarrassed by, Amber? Who’s going to judge you for what you’re watching in your own home? NO ONE! GET OVER YOURSELF!
Anyway. Ep 2. The paparazzi ep, which I only know because I’ve already rewatched it once. But after this, I don’t remember anything about S1 so we’ll get to be surprised together about what plot pops up next. :P
And.... *plays*
All evangelical street preachers are terrible. But I hate this faker just as much as the real ones. I'm on Lucifer's side here. He deserves the Devil face.
It's so cute when Linda thinks this Devil stuff is all a metaphor. Simpler times, right, Linda? ;)
Healed from feelings of humanity -- *Marcia Brady face* Sure, Lucifer.
OMG that was a Crazy Ex-Girlfriend billboard in the background! CRAZY EX-GIRLFRIEND SIGHTING!!! :D :D :D
Chloe is the absolute worst at being sneaky ROTFL
Aw. Give it a year and Maze and Chloe will be roomies :) Tell them that here and they'll both threaten to punch you lol
Lucifer once again completely fails to register that Chloe is playing him. Such a dumb-dumb (affectionately mocking)
(Chloe is just as ridiculous, though, thinking Lucifer would be wearing a bullet proof vest as part of his everyday wear. Granted, I’m sure she’s down to the dregs as far as plausible explanations go for how Lucifer could walk away unharmed after being shot multiple times. But also we saw Chloe get shot while wearing a bullet proof vest in S3 and she still got knocked back and knocked out for several minutes, which, through internet osmosis, I’m fairly certain is realistic with how bullet proof vests work in real life? So are you even still in the dregs, there, Chloe or are you now pulling straws out of your butt just to grasp at them?)
I was curious about who on the force would still call Chloe with a tip, but then I realized it was Dan lol. That makes sense.
Chloe easily follows Lucifer's lead even after telling him no. She only pretends to have self control. :P
*snorts* That look from Dan is 20% annoyed Lucifer is hanging out with Chloe and 80% pissed because he had to listen to Trixie talk for hours the other night about a two minute run-in with Lucifer where she gushed on and on about how awesome Lucifer is. ROTFL
"Is this the fight you want to pick?" -- It'll be nice when Dan gets a new refrain cause repeating himself two eps in a row is both annoying and very 'in case you missed the pilot, here's a quick recap' which is equally annoying.
Hi Amenadiel! (said with Trixie cheer) It will be nice when you get a new refrain too. Which happens sooner than I remembered because I rewatched the finale too last month for fic research and he was pretty much regular Amenadiel already which was... shocking. I could’ve sworn that took longer.
(Speaking of shocking, let me tell you, my first time through the early eps, I was FLOORED to realize Chloe and Dan were only separated in S1. I was under the assumption they were divorced the entire run of the show! I didn’t realize they were still married in the beginning. Fucking wild.)
The hilarious part is God probably isn't saying shit about any of this. This is all Amenadiel thinking he knows what Absentee Dad wants just like Uriel did in S2. (and look where that got Uriel....)
I know it hasn't come up yet, but they really didn't do the praying thing to contact angels after S1, did they? I mean they showed angels answering human prayers (very badly lol) in S5, but never prayers to contact another angel. Probably because Amenadiel and Lucifer had cell phones and no other angels were on earth. But still, I wish they had kept it. I like it.
Ninja chemist by night -- damn this girl is both imaginative and smart. And obsessed with ninjas even before befriending Maze. Excellent. No wonder they became instant besties.
CHLOE YOU ASKED ABOUT THE EIFFEL TOWER WHEN YOUR DAUGHTER WAS IN EARSHOT! THAT'S ON YOU! lmao
This whole conversation with the paparazzo is just Lucifer being all 'I came out to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked (by pesky human empathy) :(' I like it. Good shit.
Back to ‘just S1 things’, I'm fine with this weird Hell coin being a pilot season one-off though. It doesn't make any kind of world-building sense to me but if it's just for a season, I can roll with it.
'Are you coming or what?' -- :D Let the partnership begin!!!
Man, being a kid in LA must suck being right on top of Hollywood. The gossip mill must be out of control! And the brutal bullying about which parent has the more famous job. Or do the kids in LA bully each other about other things and consciously roll their eyes and shove the Hollywood stuff away because it’s so mundane and boring? I don’t know how school cliques work outside of the small ass Illinois town I grew up in.
How do these people always remember license plate numbers after seeing them for two seconds? Can't relate.
Maze just glaring and slicing an apple in the corner is perfection. Love my girl <3
But Dan, if Chloe isn't following him and you (allegedly *side eyes*) aren't following him, then how do you know the perp is missing? o_O
It's also cute when Lucifer was so convinced humans couldn't change cause he had spent too many eons in Hell where no one managed to stop running from their guilt. They're all so naive and innocent in S1, aren't they? :)
Leverage did this gun showdown better. But Leverage is as close to a perfect show as I've ever seen and this is Lucifer’s second episode ever so that's not really a fair comparison.
'Luci... you should've taken the offer.' -- Amenadiel... you shouldn't bring dead humans back to life so they can kill your brother for you. (See? Two can play the blame game :P)
Trixie already knowing about Hot Tub High School is reason #3 that I accept the fan theory that Trixie has always believed Lucifer is really the Devil. The girl understands things like reality and the truth.
(Trixie already knowing about the movie is also evidence #8 that Chloe and Dan are :S as parents. How does a 7/8 year old have that kind of unfettered access to the internet? What is happening with my niblings' generation??? MONITOR YOUR CHILDREN'S INTERNET SO YOU CAN TEACH THEM HOW TO PROPERLY USE IT! ffs)
No comment on the Jimmy scene. His freakout and Lucifer disappearing and popping back up somewhere else in the blink of an eye only weigh on Chloe's mind enough for her to shoot Lucifer later in the season, but not enough for her to believe he's really the Devil until S4. I’ve also seen it a few too many times in fan vids. Oops!
IT’S OVER! \0/ I’ve successfully liveblogged two whole episodes!! WHOO!! It definitely worked better to let the episode roll and take quick notes on the side that I went back and fleshed out after the episode finished. I’m going to stick with that method of liveblogging.
Catch you in the next one!
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idabbleincrazy · 2 years
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Really starting to hate streaming shows splitting seasons into 2 parts. It was bad enough when Lucifer did it for s5 (with a friggin cliffhanger!!!), but now I gotta wait a month for the rest of Stranger Things 4?? 😫
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marlaslinger · 3 years
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“Whoever I’m most attracted to, bam, that’s your killer.” ELLA IS OUT OF POCKET ON THE VERY FIRST EPISODE HOLY FUCK???
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I just realised that God and Goddess said goodbye only to Lucifer and Amenadiel . And God said I love you to both of them. But there were three people sitting at that table, three sons who needed to know that they were loved. One of them never got to hear that three words. The only one who will never know, was also the one who probably needed it the most: Michael.
Let’s see how much it takes to get me into the fandom jail since I love Michael lol
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genderfluidchaos · 3 years
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Lucifer s5e10:
God: I cast my rebellious son out of Heaven.
Chloe: You fucked up a perfectly good angel that’s what you did. Look at him, he’s got trauma!
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